Thursday, February 02, 2006

A Tribute to The Slumpbusters

I am in a slump. I have had sex exactly once since Halloween. Once. And that was with an ex-girlfriend, so I don’t even know if that counts. All the regular things are happening; girls approaching me at parties, friend’s girlfriends telling me they have friends that think I’m hot, me getting plenty of phone numbers, but none of it seems to be working. My phone calls are not being returned and potential one-nighters somehow seem to slip through my fingers. This is the natural ebb in the roller-coaster that is the single man’s sex life, I suppose. Fortunately, there is one surefire way to free yourself from this seemingly endless period of sexlessness: The slumpbuster.

For those of you who have not heard the term and/or are not fans of the show Arli$$, a slumpbuster is an absolutely hideous woman, fat, ugly, old, missing limbs, something really wrong, who you sleep with to get you out of a slump. Now this may be a professional slump (the Arli$$ episode actually referred to a chess palyer) or a personal slump, but usually it is a sex slump. So, today I would like to give a tribute to slumpbusters past in order to remind myself that the lower you set the bar, the more things can jump on over:

Lisette – Lisette was the first girl I slept with after my college girlfriend broke up with me. She was a 32-year-old Cuban I met at a club in South Beach, with enormous fake breasts and curly black hair. Doesn’t sound like a bad looking girl, right? Well, that would be assuming that Lisette was, in fact, a girl. The fake chest was the first sign. When she kissed you, you literally thought your tongue was going to be sucked out of your mouth. I have never met a woman who kissed like that, before or since. Third, she wouldn’t let me touch her below the waist. Fourth, when we had sex, it was ridiculously tight and dry. “She” insisted this was some genetic problem “she” had, but looking back I’m not so sure. There was no adam’s apple, and she had a feminine body and face as well as a high pitched voice, so at the time I didn’t question a thing. And to this day I am 95% certain she was female. But that's 5% less than anybody else I have been with.

Tara – Tara was the first fat girl I ever hooked up with. My friend Jake tried to stop me as I got in a cab with her, screaming, “Dude, what are you doing?” as if I were about to jump headfirst into a pit of flesh-eating piranhas. He wasn’t far off. I got back to her dorm room and immediately took two shots of vodka, hoping that maybe I would later forget what I was about to do. No such luck. I remember her saying “You’re a trainer? Really, because usually trainers don’t go for overweight girls.” You’re right, Tara, they don’t. Except when they are 7 pitchers of Miller Light into the night and in the middle of a horrific slump. Then, well, let’s just say we tend to overlook your slight imperfections. (And my apologies to the regular commenter of the same name. It's a nice name, but unfortunately you share it with a girl that did not look unlike this beauty to my left)Lynn – Lynn broke my record drought when I first moved to California. By the time I met her at Fred’s in Huntington Beach, my female roommates along with everyone on my block in Newport was convinced I was gay. It probably didn’t help that I wore tight T-shirts and had two male friends from out of town stay with me during that period. So I went home with her, among other reasons, to prove them wrong. At any rate, the 35 year-old single mother looked more like a 45-year-old single mother and could have been pregnant with another child for all I could tell. She left a thank you note at the gym I worked at, which I immediately framed and hung on my bedroom door to rub in my roommates’ collective faces. Two weeks later I met my next girlfriend, and the note mysteriously disappeared.

Kari – My roommate JoJo had this girlfriend named Shanell. Shanell was about a 9, and she was the ugly one among her friends. Every single girl she brought by the apartment looked like they’d just stepped out of Playboy’s “Girls of the OC.” After I broke up with the above mentioned girlfriend, Shanell kindly tried to hook me up with several of them. Of course in true Orange County fashion, they only dated men who made at least $200,000 a year. And only that little if he was hung like a giraffe. But Shanell did have one friend who was not a knockout. She wasn’t even a playful jab in the arm. She was downright hideous, actually, so naturally she was the only one I ever slept with. Oddly enough, each time I brought her up, Shanell, in true Orange County fashion, would say, “That girl’s not my friend. I barely even know her.”

Michelle – AKA The Belt. . After learning that my summer fling had fucked her ex at the UM-FSU game in Tallahassee (while we were still “dating” I might add) I lost my sex drive for a little while. Okay, fine, like 2 days, but living with Uncle Sam and Aunt Dorothy in Boca Raton was not exactly conducive to getting laid anyway. One night I met this massive piece of humanity at the Tavern and we began making out at a table that was visible to the whole bar. I guess the patrons must have found it entertaining, because many of them proceeded to pose for pictures in front of us while we were going at it. We decided to go elsewhere and consummated our 2 hour relationship in a park in the grove. Depraved? Yes. Disgusting? Of course. Despicable? Absolutely. I make no excuses for this. I ate a five-pound burrito three days later, and if asked which I would do again if I had to, I still choose the burrito. But it got me off the schnide, and that’s what’s important.

So if there are any fat, old, or otherwise deformed ladies (or pre-ops that look like ladies in the dark) out there that would like a night with a 6’2”, 215 pound fitness trainer with brownish-blonde hair, blue eyes and a good tan, please leave your phone number in the comments box. Please, help me help myself, you might even have fun in the process. Because God knows I won’t.

6 Comments:

I had a friend that when rooting for a slumpbuster would actually turn his cap around. It was a sign to send anyone in Club La Vela his way no matter what. I hatted living in Panama City Beach, I really really did.

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